Strong as Death (Catherine LeVendeur)

by Newman, Sharan

  “Send a copy of that to Cluny and another to the abbot of Santa-Maria de Najera,” he told Pierre.

  Pierre nodded and began gathering up his writing material.

  “Stay a moment,” Peter told him. “You may need to add something for Brother James to take.”

  James blinked. Peter frowned at him. “You made us appear foolish this morning, Brother James,” the abbot said. “The honor of Saint Peter deserves better.”

  “I ask your pardon, Lord Abbot,” James replied. “I still believe that the accused man had something to do with the death of Brother Rigaud.”

  “Really?” Peter said. “I can find no basis for that conclusion. I’m more inclined to Lady Griselle’s suggestion that we look at Rigaud’s life previous to his entering Cluny. There was no reason for him to be in the church at that hour. He must have gone to meet someone he knew.”

  “Or perhaps to save the soul of someone who lured him there by falsely asking for conversion,” Brother James said angrily.

  “Perhaps.” The abbot was not convinced. “But even in that case, there would have to be a reason for asking Rigaud particularly. Or do you believe the Jews are now so mad as to vilely murder clerics at random.”

  James grudgingly admitted that this was unlikely. “I will find the one who did this,” he insisted.

  “Oh yes, you shall,” Peter replied. “I believe it must have been one of the group of pilgrims who set out with us from Le Puy, perhaps one of his old companions. But there may be someone else who knew Brother Rigaud in his former life. Apparently, all of them have decided to continue together among a larger group leaving tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow? But that’s not enough time!”

  “I agree,” the abbot said. “And I need to set out at once for Toulouse and then to our houses in Catalonia. Therefore I have decided that you, along with a few of the lay brothers and one or two of the other monks, are going to accompany them. I’ll meet you at Najera, and I expect you to have Brother Rigaud’s murderer with you in chains. Pierre will give you a note of safe conduct. Now I am going to prepare for Tierce.”

  With that, he and the secretary left the room. Brother James stood by the open door feeling as if he had just been catapulted into Hell.

  Thirteen

  Saint-Jean-Pied-le-Part/Donibane-Garazi, at the foot of the Pyrenees. Thursday, May 28, 1142; The Feast of the Ascension.

  Hymnum canamus glorie

  hymni nunc/personent,

  christus novo nunc tramite

  ad patris ascendit thronum.

  Let us sing the hymn of glory

  Now the hymns resound

  Now Christ by a new path

  Ascends the Father’s throne.

  Hymn for the Ascension

  Molesme Breviary

  Despite the company of his brother monks and the protection of the guards, Brother James felt terribly exposed on the road to the mountains. When he had entered Cluny over twenty years before, he had vowed never to set foot in the world again. Only the direct order of Abbot Peter had induced him to leave the safety of the monastery. Now he was back in the world with a vengeance, jostled by all the rabble that accompanies any group of travelers or accosts it on the road. And there was no abbot to protect him.

  With the traders from Toulouse, there were now about thirty Jews in the group. Every morning and evening, James’s nerves were grated with the sound of their prayers. No matter how far away he stayed, it seemed that the wind brought the dreaded chanting to him. He would try to stop up his ears with his own prayers, but the melody of the Hebrew slithered in every time he stopped for breath. How was he supposed to discover a murderer in all this mob and with such distraction? The Jews worried him more than Brother Rigaud’s killer did. What was the loss of one’s life compared to the loss of one’s soul? Of course, there was always the possibility that those men might wish to rob him of both.

  James did his best to stay out of sight in the center of his party, sending the lay brothers to barter for food or to arrange sleeping quarters. But he was still afraid. He knew that the time would come when he would have to do more than watch from a distance.

  In contrast, Brothers Deodatus and Bruno, who had been assigned to travel with him, were delighted with the variety of people and scenery.

  “I thought the mountains of the Morvan were impressive,” Deodatus gasped the first time the fog lifted and he saw the Pyrenees looming ahead, “but they’re nothing but gentle hills compared to this. Are we really going to climb over?”

  “We’ll go through the pass at Roncevalles,” James explained, “but I assure you, it will seem as though we’ve climbed the highest of them.”

  “Roncevalles!” Bruno was just as excited. “Will we see the rock that Roland split?”

  “No doubt,” James answered.

  Deodatus looked at him worriedly. “Forgive me, Brother James, but are your bowels functioning properly? You seem melancholic.”

  “My system is in excellent order,” James replied coldly. “And I hope yours is, too, for this is not a journey to the market at Macon. You’ll need all your energy and all your faith to reach Pamplona, on the other side of these monsters.”

  “You’ve taken this trip before, then?” Bruno asked.

  James pulled his cowl down over his face. “Yes.”

  He bent his head as if praying, and they finally left him alone.

  Solomon was so shaken by his recent escape from hanging that he was even more subdued during the ensuing days. Catherine was surprised at how much she missed his teasing. Edgar also grew more quiet as the most difficult part of the journey neared. If there were to be a place where the road ended in a sheer cliff and a narrow bridge, he believed it would be somewhere amidst all those crags and precipices. Catherine could think of nothing to say about it that wouldn’t annoy him. So she only waited and worried.

  The weather had brought a constant spring drizzle, and everything was wet through. The hard bread they had bought in Moissac had maggots in it that dropped squirming into the hot water as the bread was crumbled, or coiled from the top if they poured hot wine over it. Twice the party had been challenged by robbers. The guards fended them off easily, but the events reminded everyone of how dangerous a pilgrimage actually was.

  “It will be worse when we get to the other side,” Hubert sighed. “The Basques there have no treaty with anyone and consider all travelers theirs to plunder.”

  “We’ve all made the journey safely before,” Eliazar reminded him. “The first time I took Solomon with me, he was only twelve. A poet in Saragossa fell in love with him and wanted to buy him from me. The man was furious when I wouldn’t sell. That was the worst situation I’ve ever encountered.”

  “Depraved Saracens!” Hubert said.

  “Well, no, the poet was one of us,” Eliazar admitted. “Life is different in Spain.”

  “Yes,” said Hubert after a moment, “I remember. That’s why I had to come on this journey with Catherine.”

  Gaucher and Rufus added nothing to cheer the group.

  “We should have taken the Somport Pass,” Rufus grumbled. “The road is easier and better kept up. Saint Margaret’s demonic dragon! My joints feel as if all the red-hot nails of the martyrs were being shoved through them. If that package isn’t where we left it, Gaucher, and this agony is for nothing, I swear I’ll finish my sins by cutting your throat.”

  “Keep your voice down, Rufus,” Gaucher said. “And stop complaining. Your spirits will improve once we’re into Spain and the sun shines again. Remember, now there are only two of us left to share the profit.”

  “I never forget it, old friend,” Rufus answered. “That’s why I sleep every night with a knife in my hand and a solid wall at my back.”

  “As do I, old comrade,” Gaucher assured him. “But we’re letting death taunt us. After so many years of laughing at it, we mustn’t be cowards now. And the more I consider it, the more I believe that there can’t be any connection linking the other
s’ deaths. Norbert died of age, Hugh from the knife of a brabantine, and Rigaud most likely at the hand of an angry lover.”

  “All three are still dead,” Rufus said. “And if no one person killed them, I can only believe that we’re under some sort of curse, or even divine punishment.”

  Gaucher crossed himself rapidly. “If that’s so, then our swords are useless.”

  Maruxa gazed at the mountains with longing. To her they were nothing but another obstacle between her and her adored children. She sighed and wondered if her shoes would last the distance. At home, Roberto could stitch new soles onto them, but here, they would have to pay outrageous prices to have someone else do it.

  She laid out their remaining provisions on her cloak. There wasn’t much left. Lately people had been more careful with their donations. They were beginning to realize just how much farther there was to go.

  Hersent came over and knelt next to her. “My Lady Griselle wishes to know if you’re too proud to take a pair of her cast-off hose,” she said. “The color has faded and there are holes near the top, but they are warm.”

  Maruxa held out her hand. “My life doesn’t allow for much pride. Give her my thanks and tell her I’ll remember her in my prayers.”

  Hersent gave her the stockings but didn’t seem inclined to leave. “I understand you come from Astorga,” she said.

  “Yes, both of us,” Maruxa answered. “Do you know it?”

  “No, I’ve never been to Spain before,” Hersent said. “My husband fought there once, but nearer to Saragossa, I think.”

  Maruxa nodded. “There were many battles in that land. My husband, Roberto, was born in Saragossa, but his father grew weary of the constant fighting and moved his family to Astorga. Was your husband in Spain with Lord Bertran?”

  “No, years before. Ghyso was only a squire then, and the country fascinated him.” Hersent smiled. “He told me so many stories that I feel it will all be familiar when I see it.”

  “It’s very different from what people in the north believe,” Maruxa said. “We have so many songs about the battles between Christians and Saracens, but half the time the lords of both faiths are fighting among themselves and making alliances with those who should be their enemies.”

  “Yes, that’s what Ghyso said.” Hersent shook her head. “That’s why Lord Bertran was so useful to the kings he served, for he spoke the language of the Saracens and understood their customs.”

  “There are many like that where I came from,” Maruxa told her. “And since we all dress much the same, it’s difficult to know what religion a stranger is. Many of the northerners get themselves into trouble by not understanding that. You should be careful.”

  “I’ll remember. Thank you.” Hersent got up. “I have other commissions from my mistress. I must be going.”

  Maruxa watched her, not sure why the maid had stayed to talk in the first place.

  “By the way,” Hersent said before she left, “that’s true of those who come north from Spain as well. They can meet disaster through ignorance of our ways. But you already know that, don’t you?”

  Maruxa gaped at her in sudden terror. Hersent did not look back.

  When the maid had gone, Maruxa took the stockings and ripped at them until there was nothing left but a pile of shredded yarn.

  They spent several days in Saint-Jean, preparing supplies and repairing equipment. The village had been built recently by the king of Navarre specifically to attend to the needs of pilgrims and traders. Goods were priced accordingly high. Money changers did a thriving business, as did sellers of old clothes and boots. The prices for these latter were quite reasonable, as long as one wasn’t particular about what had happened to the previous owner.

  Even though it was the height of the season for traffic over the mountains, Solomon had found a place for them to stay in the end of a room at an inn set next to a mountain stream. The music of the water bounding over the rocks lulled them to sleep, and Catherine’s dreams were all gentle.

  Solomon had even managed to get a curtain hung across the corner where Catherine and Edgar slept. It was a luxury not often come by on the road. Catherine was thrilled not to have to sleep in her clothes … and even more so that Edgar didn’t have to either.

  “How did you manage it?” she asked her cousin.

  “I’ve been here before.” Solomon tried to control his smirk.

  “Ah, you are a friend of the woman who owns the inn.” Catherine understood. “I thought she greeted you with exceptional enthusiasm.”

  “Let’s say that she was happy to know that Edgar was your husband,” Solomon said.

  “And she has no protective brothers?” Catherine laughed.

  “No one.” He seemed uncomfortable. “She’s a widow with no children. Her husband brought her here from Navarre. He left her the inn when he died. I keep telling her she should marry again. With no family here, she needs someone to watch out for her interests.”

  “And why haven’t you applied for the job?” Catherine teased. “It’s the perfect life for you—a beautiful woman and a constant supply of wine.”

  “Ah well, she has higher standards.” Solomon’s lips tightened slightly. “Didn’t you hear what she called me when we arrived?”

  “No, it was just a torrent of sound to me,” Catherine admitted. “Until she switched to something like French.”

  “‘Yuda,’” Solomon told her. “I’m her pet Jew. Maya is a good Christian. She’ll go to bed with me, but as for marriage …”

  Catherine opened her mouth to make a suggestion but stopped herself. They had been through this often before. Solomon knew what she had been about to say.

  “I’m not converting for her sake,” he said firmly. “What sort of person would give up his place in heaven for the enjoyment of human pleasures?”

  “Some have converted for less,” she answered. “But I know you aren’t one of them. You must come to belief honestly, through grace and your own reasoning … though I wonder if the grace might come to you if you ever found someone you really loved.”

  Solomon pulled on her braid, a signal that the conversation was over. “That is something I may never find out,” he laughed. “But the search is so much fun.”

  That evening Catherine found Mondete sitting on a rock jutting out into the tumbling stream. “You do love running water,” she commented.

  “It’s strange, isn’t it?” the woman answered. “It’s not as if I lived in a desert. But there’s something about the water, especially in the heights. It’s so cold and clear and untroubled. Long ago, they say, there were creatures living in the streams, like mermaids in the oceans, but the saints drove them all away. I never understood why. Their souls couldn’t have been very evil, not so much as those of the men who hunted them.”

  She trailed her hand in the foam as the stream spilled over a log just above the surface. Catherine sat near her.

  “I don’t think the creatures were driven away,” she said. “I think that perhaps they were convinced to come out of their streams and accept baptism. Then they no longer needed to live submerged. The water of life was with them always.”

  She couldn’t see Mondete’s face, but the tone of her answer told Catherine her opinion of that theory.

  “You should have stayed in the convent, young Catherine,” Mondete said. “Pretty stories like that are only for the cloistered. I think the river maidens were driven away by the missionaries because they had no sin, no part in the curse of Eden. They needed no savior. They were already as pure as the water. So there was no place for them among us.”

  This idea opened up intriguing intellectual explorations for Catherine, but she reined them in. Mondete wasn’t interested in debating the nature of humanity or redemption.

  “You’ve repented, changed your life, and are doing penance,” she said instead. “Those will restore purity. Look at the vita of Saint Mary the Egyptian. Her sins of the flesh were all forgiven when she washed herself in the River Jor
dan.”

  Mondete turned and lowered her hood to look at Catherine more clearly. “What book have you lived in all your life, girl?” she asked in exasperation. “I’m not repenting sins of the flesh. I’ve committed none.”

  “What? You mean you weren’t a whore?” Catherine blurted.

  “Oh yes, that I was,” Mondete assured her, “since I was given to old Norbert in the first month after I became a woman … almost twenty-five years and hundreds of men ago. Maybe thousands, I don’t know.”

  She stopped herself and looked at Catherine with curiosity. “Tell me,” she said, “in confidence, how many men have you had?”

  “Me?” Catherine was shocked. “Only Edgar, of course. That’s all. Truly!”

  “And you enjoy the act, don’t you?” Mondete pressed. “Of course one is allowed to in marriage, as long as it’s only to engender children, and that’s the only reason why the two of you do it, right?”

  Catherine blushed, but felt she had to be honest. Mondete had answered her blunt question truthfully. It would be wrong to dissemble now.

  “No, it isn’t,” she said softly. “When I look at Edgar, when he touches me, all I want is to be one with him, so close that not even death could tear us apart. I want children because that’s the only way in this life that the two of us can be one. But if Saint James doesn’t grant this, and even if I know there is no possibility of a child, I’ll still long for the times Edgar’s body is with mine and greet them with joy.”

  Mondete’s head snapped back as if Catherine had slapped her.

  “I’m sorry,” Catherine said. “I don’t normally speak of such things. Forgive me.”

  Mondete took a deep breath. “No, I asked you and you told me. It was an unforgiveable question. But you will agree that the sin is not in the act but in the lust, the giving way to carnality?”